The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,
And even the stout Sir John,

Had a secret dread, and their hopes all fled,
As the weeks and the months passed on.
Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame,
And looked on that fated crew;

His chilling breath was as cold as death,

And it pierced their warm hearts through! A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep, Came over their weary eyes,

And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and

streams,

And the blue of their native skies.

The Christmas chimes, of the good old times,

Were heard in each dying ear,

And the dancing feet, and the voices sweet

Of their wives and their children dear!

But it faded away

-away-away!

Like a sound on a distant shore,

And deeper and deeper grew the sleep,
Till they slept to wake no more.

O, the sailor's wife, and the sailor's child,.
They will weep, and watch, and pray;

And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain, As the long years pass away!

The gallant Crozier, and brave Fitz James,

And the good Sir John have found

An open way, to a quiet bay,

And a port where we all are bound!

Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore,

That circles the frozen pole;

But there is no sleep, and no grave so deep, That can hold a human soul.

3

THE BURIAL OF WEBSTER.

Low and solemn be the requiem above the nation's

dead;

Let fervent prayers be uttered, and farewell blessings said!

Close by the sheltering homestead, beneath the household tree,

Where oft his footsteps lingered, here let the part

ing be!

Draw near in solemn silence, with slow and meas

ured tread;

Come with the brow uncovered, and gaze upon the

dead!

How like a fallen hero, in silent rest he lies!

With the seal of Death upon him, and its dimness in his eyes!

Speak! but there comes no answer. That voice of power is still

Which woke the slumbering Senate as with a giant's will!

That voice, which rang so proudly back from the

echoing walls,

In court and civic council, and legislative halls; Which summoned back those spirits, who long were mute and still,

--

The Pilgrim sires of Plymouth the dead .of Bunker Hill,

And in their silent presence gave to the past a

tongue

Like that which roused the nations when Freedom's

war-cry rung.

But now, the roar of cannon, the thunder of the

deep,

The battle-shock of earthquakes, cannot wake him from his sleep!

The foot that trod so proudly upon the earth's green

sod,

The manly form, created in the image of its God,

The brow, where mental greatness had set her

noblest seal,

The lip, whence thoughts were uttered like shafts of polished steel,

All, all of these shall moulder back to their parent earth,

Back to the silent bosom from whence they sprang to birth!

The man, the living Webster, - passed with a

fleeting breath!

Alas, for human greatness!-the end thereof is

death!

O! what is earthly glory? Ask Cæsar, when he

fell

At the base of Pompey's statue, slain by those he loved too well;

Ask the Carthaginian hero, who kept his fearful

Ask Napoleon in his exile; ask the dead before

ye now;

And one answer, and one only, in the light of truth

is given:

"Man's highest earthly glory is to do the will of

Heaven;

To rise and battle bravely, with dauntless moral

might,

In the holy cause of Freedom, and the triumph of

the Right!"